


Parent-Teacher Association

by Ampithoe



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Middle School, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Child Neglect, Chronic Illness, Chronically Ill!Baz, Dyslexia, Emergency Medical Care, Enemies to Allies, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Foster Care, Friends to Lovers, IEP, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Injury, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, Special education, allies to friends, crohn's disease, foster parent!simon, or as slow as you can get in six chapters, parent!Simon, teacher!Baz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24238219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ampithoe/pseuds/Ampithoe
Summary: Baz has almost managed to forget the infuriatingly gorgeous man who he couldn't stop thinking about in college, and now he's teaching English in middle school and getting by. Simon has almost managed to forget the gorgeous man who always put him down and made him feel clumsy and stupid, and now he's living happily with his foster daughter. But then Simon's kid ends up in Baz's class and all the old feelings are new again.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 172
Kudos: 283





	1. September

**Author's Note:**

> Two important notes:
> 
> 1\. This is set in the USA.
> 
> 2\. Mordelia Grimm is NOT related to Baz Pitch -- Malcolm never remarried and Baz has no siblings.
> 
> Many thanks to @daisy-bug and @tbazzsnow for beta-reading this!

**Baz**

Why did I ever think that becoming a middle-school English teacher was a good idea?

Okay, I know why I chose this. I loved reading and thinking about books when I was in school and in college, and this was a way to make it the core of my professional life. And I had a middle school teacher who changed things for me, and I wanted to be that for some other kids, too, if I could. And it has worked out that way. But...

I didn't realize that middle schoolers can be real shits; I didn't realize how much any human beings, especially young human beings, exhaust me; I didn't realize how much I would always be exhausted because of my treacherous immune system; and I didn't realize how much bloody paperwork there would be.

Tonight's fun is Back to School Night. I had a day of seven long periods, six of them full of kids I need to herd, talk to, listen to, keep control of, and try to lure into caring about stories. Now, instead of getting to settle down in my apartment with some food and tea and music and maybe even a book to read just for pleasure, I'm re-enacting the day in miniature – seven short periods of ten minutes each, and during six of them I need to let parents know what I'll be teaching, what I hope their kids will learn, how they can help and support them. It's good to be able to try to recruit them onto Team Education, but, well, it's been a long day.

The first three sessions are uneventful. The parents listen politely, I get a few relevant questions, and a few more parents wanting to make sure I know how special their kid is. Here comes Round 4: once more into the breach. I cue up my first slide and look out to the room, registering faces, making eye contact. It's all a bit rote at this point. And then I see him.

Simon Snow.

Simon fucking Snow.

I wasn't expecting this. There aren't any Snows in the class – I've had the roster for two weeks, and I would have noticed; it's an unusual name.

I never had a class with him, but I had several with his housemate, Penelope. She was smart as a whip, fun to argue with, and an excellent study partner. Sometimes when we studied at her place, Snow would be around with his pretty blonde girlfriend. I found him unreasonably distracting and was as curt as I could be with him, if not cutting.

Because he was, quite simply, the most beautiful man I had ever seen. And kind. And cheerful. And I had no love and no support and no chance and I could not stand it. Could not stand to be in the periphery of his light when his attention was all on his housemate and his girlfriend and I was just someone to say hello to in passing, maybe, if he noticed me at all. I wasn't very happy then, and I wasn't very nice. I was sick as hell (so sick that I lost 20 pounds without trying) and holding on by my fingernails.

Am I staring? I might be staring. Am I still talking? Apparently, though I'm not at all sure what I'm saying. I look at my slide, take a deep breath, and forge ahead into homework expectations and major units of study. It's a good thing I've already given the talk three times tonight, because autopilot is my only hope of making it through. I manage, somehow, to talk for eight minutes, and I've put up all the slides, so I guess I've covered the material. I encourage the parents to reach out by email if they have questions, but of course there's only one I want to hear from – the one who almost certainly never wants to talk to me again.

**Simon**

I guess all these other parents have been to lots of Back to School Nights. The kids are in seventh grade, so most of them have been doing this for at least the past seven years. It's all new to me, though, because I just became a foster dad at the beginning of the summer. I've wanted to do it for a long time, I guess since the first time I had a good foster parent myself. My life was pretty crappy up until age 16 – lots of “homes” (they weren't homes, but they call them that), never for very long. Lots of fights.

But then I got to live with Ebb, and I found out what “home” actually meant. She loved me and supported me, even when I was aggressive or destructive or shut down. She helped me get my act together enough to graduate from high school, which I hadn't really planned on, and then to try community college and then “real” college. I got my degree in social work, and now I get to work with her.

And now, finally, I get to try to pass on to some more kids what she gave to me. Love and sanity and order and limits and the idea that an adult really can want good things for a kid and deliver on them. Mordelia came to live with me at the beginning of the summer and we're still just getting started on building that understanding. We've gotten as far as clean clothes and a consistent schedule, and she's starting to trust in 3 good meals a day, and to trust my temper enough to show some spark and sass (as opposed to sullen fury – we had a lot of that early on).

Anyway, I'm liking tonight. The school seems good – better than the ones I went to. The classrooms are clean and in good repair and have all kinds of interesting posters and things. Nobody's really started a conversation with me, but when I say hi or introduce myself they're friendly enough back. I like to have people to be friendly with. And the teachers seem to really love their subjects. I've been going from room to room based on the schedule Mordelia brought home for me. I've had math, art, and science so far, and I've got a messy stack of papers – everybody seems to have a handout full of curriculum goals and contact information and important dates. There's going to be an art show at the end of the semester – that sounds like a cool idea.

Now it's time for English. I find room 510 and take a seat at the back. I introduce myself to the parents on either side of me and then the lights go down and I look up at the first slide. And I'm caught completely off-guard when I hear the teacher's voice. A beautiful, smooth voice that sounds familiar. Not someone I hear often, but somewhere... I look at the slide. Like all of the teachers, he starts with his contact information. His name is apparently “T. Basilton Pitch”. That's pretty fancy. What the hell kind of a name is Basilton?

Oh.

It's Baz.

Penny's study partner Baz.

Pen's handsome, elegant, articulate, snotty, stuck-up study partner Baz.

Fuck.

Oh God.

In any other situation I would just avoid him. If I saw him on the street, I would turn around and hurry away. If we worked in the same office I might even change jobs. But I'm Mordelia's dad and I can't let my angst, my terror, this fucking hollow feeling in my chest get in the way of being the parent she needs and deserves.

**Baz**

I make it through my slides and finish up by saying that anyone with individual questions can come up and ask them. Most of the parents start filing out (I guess I'm not the only one who's had a long day) but Snow comes shuffling up to me.

“Um.”

He tugs on his hair.

“Um, hi.” Pause. “Er, I don't know if you remember me...”

I toy with the idea of saying I don't, but I don't think that would make this any less awkward, so – “Yes, in fact, Snow, I do remember you.” Fuck, I must sound pretty snotty. He's always brought that out in me.

“Oh, um, good. Er.”

Christ, this is going to take forever and the next group of parents is already trickling in. 

“Much as I love to listen to you bluster, Snow, I need to cue up my talk again. Are you free sixth period? Perhaps you’ll have worked out what you want to say by then.” Oh my God, did I just ask if he was free? While insulting him? Can I not find a middle path between tearing him a new one and sounding like I’m asking him out?

He starts shuffling through his sheaf of papers, dropping one of them. I take pity on him and pull out the yellow one, which has his student's schedule on it. While I've got it, I look quickly at the student's name.

Oh. It's Mordelia Grimm. This is going to be...interesting. In just two weeks, she’s already disrupted my class, been visibly on the edge of furious tears, and made a number of deeply perceptive comments. She’s kind of a brilliant disaster.

“Okay, you have sixth free, and so do I – meet me back here. Now head on over to the gym while I deal with this.”

Giving the talk with Snow in the room was hard enough. Giving it while expecting him to show up in 12 minutes – to show up in my  _ otherwise empty classroom _ – is almost impossible. What the HELL was I thinking!?

I succeed in continuing to breathe and in paging through the slides. I don't know if I can tell you anything else that happened fifth period.

**Simon**

Oh God oh God oh God. All I wanted to do was reintroduce myself and get past anything weird or awkward so we could have a normal parent-teacher relationship (whatever that's like; I have no way of knowing). But I stumbled over my tongue so much that he had to send me away and tell me to come back later. (It's a good thing that's not weird or awkward.)

And I said I would.

Oh God.

Gym's almost over (the only fact I absorbed is that they really, really want the kids to have deodorant) and I have to go back to Baz's classroom. Well, all I wanted was to establish a positive working relationship, so I'll just say that. I hope. If I don't just tie my tongue in knots instead.

**Baz**

Fifth period is up and I have one stray parent asking about opportunities for extra credit. I'm answering, more or less, but I'm watching the door instead of their face. Snow comes in and I brush the parent off, telling them it's all on Schoology and in the handouts (which is true; they could have looked at the handouts and let me stew in my lovesick juices). (Did I just use the word “lovesick”? Christ, I'm fucked.)

“Snow.”

“Baz.”

He walks about halfway across the classroom and stands there among the tables. I ask something that's been nagging at me in the rare moments where my neurons were not just firing random images of bronze curls, blue eyes, and freckles. “So, how do you have a seventh grader already? We must be about the same age, and I didn't think you had a kid back in college.” (Did he marry that pretty blonde woman? Did she get pregnant senior year or something?)

“Oh, no, I'm Mordelia's foster father. She just came to live with me at the beginning of the summer.”

That sounds about right. He was majoring in social work and wanted to work with kids (I barely spoke to him, but I absorbed every word Penny said about him). I guess he achieved that.

“Oh, so you're not married?” (How is that relevant to Mordelia's education? It isn't, not much. But it feels very important to me.)

“No, Mordelia's my family. And Ebb, I guess – she was my foster mom back when. She's hanging out with Mordelia tonight.”

“Oh? I think a lot of parents just leave the kids home on their own for Back to School Night. I mean, they're middle schoolers, and it's not like it runs terribly long.” This feels inane, but at least inanity is kind of normal.

“Mordelia's been left alone more than enough.” He sounds firm and determined. This man has some fire and some skin in the game.

Some beautiful, freckled, tawny skin.

I feel stupidly silent. Did I really get a degree in English? Because right now I don't seem to be able to make a sentence. After several long beats he speaks again.

“Anyway. I guess it's almost time for last period. I just. Well. This could have been awkward.” (Could have been?  _ Could _ have been!?) “I just wanted to make sure that we can work together for Mordelia. If she needs us to.”

“Uh, yes, definitely. Yes.”

“Okay, well, thanks. Be seeing you.” Oh God I hope so. Oh God I hope not.

He turns and walks to the door.

“Uh, yes, thank you. Good night,” I manage.

He turns back for a second. “Night.”

And he walks out of the room.

**Simon**

I walk into the apartment and start to wave to Ebb when Mordi bursts out at me from behind the door, brandishing a large broadsword. She gets the shriek she wanted from me, and I'm only playing it up a little bit.

“Wow! That thing is huge! Is it new?”

“I finished it tonight! Ebb gave me aesthetic opinions and held things steady while I cut and taped.”

During Mordi's first week with me, I was showing her a nearby park, and we saw kids running around and fighting with foam weapons. We asked what was going on, and it turned out they were doing LARP – Live Action Role Play – fantasy pretend adventures, kind of like Dungeons and Dragons but with actual hand-to-hand combat. She asked to try it, and it's become her main hobby.

I love it for her – she gets to be outside and active; she gets to act out aggression, striving, pursuit, success and failure, in a safe environment, and it's a place where all kinds of quirkiness are taken in stride. She can be herself, and she can try out new versions of herself. Honestly, it's like psychotherapy, only cheaper, more fun, and she begs to go. She spends every Wednesday afternoon and a lot of her Saturdays fighting monsters, solving puzzles, and saving the (imaginary) world. And when she's not out adventuring with the group, she's often making weapons, studying the rules, or telling me about her adventures.

I have this daily ritual with Mordi, something Ebb used to do with me: “three things” – she tells me three things from her day, and I tell her three things from mine. We didn't get to do it before I went off to Back to School Night.

“Hey, we should do our three things,” I say. “I guess a new weapon is one for you. Hmm... my first is that I'm excited to see your art in the exhibition at the end of the term. Your turn.”

“Okay. In science we saw a video about bats. Did you know that like one quarter of mammal species are bats?”

“I had no idea. When I think 'mammal', I don't usually think 'flying'. What else do I have – oh, yeah, speaking of mammals, there was this person in a panther costume. I guess that's the school mascot? Anyway, they went to high-five me but I cowered in fear instead.”

“You are such a goofball sometimes! Okay, my last one is that I was in the middle of working on my sword and I couldn't find the brown duct tape and Ebb finally spotted it stuck to the back of my hoodie. Now you finish up.”

I could tell her about knowing Baz from college, but I don't really want to get into what a dick he can be – she doesn't need me putting down her teacher (even if he would kind of deserve it). “At work we had a celebration for Rosa. She's going on leave soon to have her baby.”

“That's cool I guess. Did you get a celebration for me?”

“I did, actually. So not only did I get someone who can defend the apartment against any marauding orcs, I also got chocolate cake. Win-win!”

After I admire the new sword some more and she finishes cleaning up after her project, I give her a fist bump and send her off towards bed. (We're not on hugging terms yet, but have settled on fist bumps as a way to connect physically that feels safe and satisfying to us both.) I go to Ebb and get a mighty hug. Hugging Ebb is like hugging a tree that can hug you back – she's deeply alive and rooted to the world and it feels like forever. She's been making tea for us while I finished up with Mordi, so we settle on the sofa to drink and chat.

“So how was your first Back to School Night?”

“It was cool. The other parents were reasonably friendly, the facilities are great, and the teachers seem to care about what they're doing. There is this one weird thing, though.”

“Mm?”

“It turns out I know her English teacher from college.”

“Oh, were you friends?”

I let out a disgusted puff of air. “Not even a little bit! He was a total jerk, really snotty, and it seems like he still is. I just hope he's nicer to the kids than he was to me.”

“Well, not every teacher is a paragon. Just be open to listening to her if she's having trouble with him.”

“I guess. Hopefully it'll be okay. I mean, I don't think he would get away with talking to the kids the way he talked to me. Anyway, thank you so much for hanging out with Mordi so I could go.”

“It's no trouble at all – she's a great kid. And I think you're doing a great job with her.”

“If I am, it's because I learned how from you.”

She smiles. “Flatterer! Well, I should be going. See you at work tomorrow.”

“Yeah, see you.” And we hug one more time.

**Baz**

I never expected Snow back in my life. Of all the classrooms in all the towns in all the world... I don't think about him all that often these days. Not even every time that I jerk off. Well, at least that used to be the case. Now that I've seen him again I think all bets are off. He's as attractive as ever – more so, even. His shoulders are broader and his chest has filled out. His hair is a little less unkempt.

And, dammit, I still can't keep a civil tongue in my head around him. I ricocheted crazily between mean and inarticulate tonight. Aside from the fact that alienating him is probably not what I really want, it's totally unprofessional now that I'm teaching his kid. I might never have to see him again after tonight, of course, but Mordelia is enough of a handful that it's more likely than if it was another student. If I do, I really need to grit my teeth and act like a normal adult.

**Simon**

I didn't think I would ever see Baz Pitch again. I thought that asshole was out of my life forever, and now he's teaching my kid. He's smart and well educated and has perfect manners (not like me) but that's different from kindness and compassion. I don't like him or respect him, but since he's her teacher, I'll need to be polite to him. I don't care so much how he treats me, but he better treat her fairly and respectfully or I'll have his ass up in front of the principal.

In college, he always seemed like everything I wasn't. He was graceful and handsome. He had money – he was always dressed well in clothes that looked new and fit perfectly. He was totally ready for college – he spoke well and it seemed like studying and writing papers and stuff came easy to him. I've always felt like a dumb, clumsy lump in comparison. But I know how to care about other people, and I'm living that with Mordelia every day. As I lie in bed, I try to hold onto the importance of these invisible internal things, rather than feeling inferior to his fucking perfect facade.

Nice try, Simon, I think to myself. Nice try.


	2. October

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz and Simon start interacting about Mordelia's educational needs. Baz works hard not to come off as a lovesick fool and Simon works hard to be a good dad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mordelia is not related to Baz; Malcolm never remarried and Baz is an only child.
> 
> This is set in the USA.
> 
> I am very grateful to @daisy-bug and @tbazzsnow for beta reading!

**Baz**

I was correct in assuming that Snow being Mordelia's parent would mean more contact, though I hadn't predicted the precipitating factor. The good news is that I do most parent contact by email, and that's enough of a remove that I can keep my cool and be reasonably polite (both of which seem to be out of the question in person, if Back to School Night is anything to judge by). In email, I can (and do) go through several drafts.

The text itself is two simple sentences and I don't spend too much time on it. The salutation and closing are another matter. I try out addressing him every possible way – Simon, Mr. Snow, Snow – and signing myself off as Baz, Basil, Basilton, Baz Pitch, or T. Basilton Pitch. I settle on Snow, which I've always called him and he's never seemed to mind, and Basil, which seems like a middle course between the options.

**From** : T. Basilton Pitch

 **To** : Simon Snow

 **Subject** : Mordelia's glasses

Hello Snow,

Could you help Mordelia find her glasses? I think that would be helpful to her in class.

Thanks,

Basil

**From** : Simon Snow

 **To** : T. Basilton Pitch

 **Subject** : Re: Mordelia's glasses

Um, she doesn't have glasses. Why?

– Simon

**From** : T. Basilton Pitch

 **To** : Simon Snow

 **Subject** : Re: Mordelia's glasses

Could you take her to get a new pair then?

Best,

Basil

**From** : Simon Snow

 **To** : T. Basilton Pitch

 **Subject** : Re: Mordelia's glasses

I'm confused. I don't think she's ever had glasses. And I know they did a vision screening when I took her to the doctor at the beginning of the summer and it was fine. But you're talking like she has them. What's up?

– Simon

**From** : T. Basilton Pitch

 **To** : Simon Snow

 **Subject** : Re: Mordelia's glasses

I share your confusion. Today in class, I had the kids working in pairs reading and responding to short stories. She said she had lost her glasses and asked her partner to read the story out loud. I'm not sure what to suggest, except that you discuss it with her.

Best,

Basil

**From** : Simon Snow

 **To** : T. Basilton Pitch

 **Subject** : Re: Mordelia's glasses

I'll do that and let you know what's up.

Thanks,

Simon

**Simon**

Okay, that's really weird. I guess maybe she used to have reading glasses and the pediatrician only checks distance vision, but she's never mentioned it. And I know that the medical records I got when she came to live with me probably weren't complete, but they didn't say anything about glasses either. So I just don't know what's going on.

Also, I get a lurch in my gut when I see there's a new email from Baz (“Best, Basil?” Who signs emails like that?) but everything he said was appropriate (unless this is some kind of weird plot, but that seems far-fetched). I order pizza for dinner from Mordi's favorite place (I figure comfort food is a good basis for a potentially awkward discussion).

After she gets home from school, we do our usual “three things about your day.” She mentions learning about Roman gods and goddesses and how they're like the Greek ones by different names, having terrible chicken teriyaki for lunch, and what a great smile the crossing guard has. I tell her about a coworker who brought in vacation photos from Bali, a panhandler I saw on the way to lunch whose sign said “please subsidize my vices”, and an NPR story I heard on the way to work about a woman environmental scientist who decided to run for Congress. Neither of us says a word about glasses or English class.

Later, over pizza, I go there. “So, I got this email from your English teacher today. He says you need glasses for reading?”

“Uh, yeah, never mind. I just didn't want to deal with stuff right then.”

“So you were making it up? That doesn't seem like you. What's the deal?”

“Look, I don't want to talk about it.” She inspects her pizza slice closely, as if there might be something important hiding between the olives.

“I'm sorry, but I really want to understand this. If you're avoiding class work, that's a problem.”

“I wasn't avoiding anything! The work was to answer the questions and I did that.” She bites angrily into the slice.

I keep my voice light and inquisitive. “Yes, but the reading was part of it too, right? Why didn't you want to do that part?”

“Why can't you just leave me alone! I'm not stupid! And I'm not lazy! I just didn't want to deal with it, okay?” She slams her pizza down, rattling her plate against the table.

“Hey, Mordi, can you calm down a little? I know you're smart, and I know you're determined. I just want to know what's going on here, and the louder you get about it the more certain I am that there's something I need to understand.”

“Just leave me ALONE!” She stands up and shoves her chair back so hard it falls over. She jerks it back upright and storms off to her room. As she goes, I say “I'm here when you're ready to talk.” What I really want to do is chase her, bang her door open, MAKE her tell me, but I know that's not smart. She needs some time to breathe, and she needs me to not be scary. Whatever she has to tell me, it's going to be better if she comes to me at least somewhat willingly. I settle myself on the sofa with my laptop and some work documents so that I'm here if she takes me up on that invitation to talk.

I edit 3 reports and write one more. I scan 15 pages of new regulations. I respond to today's emails and file them in the appropriate folders. Then I file emails from, like, the last month because it's not like I actually do that on a regular basis.

No Mordi.

I know I need to let her come to me, but it's not easy. Sometimes the things you need to _not_ do are the hardest things about parenting.

**From** : Simon Snow

 **To** : T. Basilton Pitch

 **Subject** : Re: Mordelia's glasses

Hello Baz,

I just wanted to give you an update. Well, it's kind of a non-update. There's definitely something going on here – she got kind of agitated when I brought it up. She was upset enough that I'm giving her some space. If whatever this is gets really disruptive please let me know and I'll push. But if it hasn't come to that I think it's better for me to go gently here. Sorry I can't be more helpful yet.

– Simon

**Baz**

I can't help it. I get a flutter in my chest every time I see an email from Snow. It's not like he wants to talk to me as _me_ ; he's talking to his kid's English teacher. It's pointless to go off into reveries about his hair and his shoulders when I should just be filing it and moving on, but here we are. I'm stupidly besotted all over again. At least the detachment of email lets me avoid being an alienating asshole to him.

It was conscientious of him to follow up just to say “no news yet” – I know from experience that a lot of parents wouldn’t bother. I wish I could fool myself that it's because he's as desperate for any kind of contact with me as I am for contact with him. Probably not, though. He's being very thoughtful about his interactions with Mordelia. I don't know a lot about what's going on there. It's a foster relationship, so she's got some kind of loss or abandonment in her background. I think he said this is her first year with him, so he's still building their connection.

How can one man be so attractive in his physical being _and_ such a good person? I've got this broken down shitbox of an immune system and I know I don't put a fraction of the positive energy out into the world that he does either. It's a stupid waste of my time to think about him the way that I do – he's straight, so far as I know, for one thing – but I can't help myself.

Well. Time to experience my pathetic little bit of pseudo-contact for the evening.

**To** : Simon Snow

 **From** : T. Basilton Pitch

 **Subject** : Re: Mordelia's glasses

Thanks for the update, Snow.

Best,

Basil

I sit down to an extremely exciting gay-bachelor-with-Crohn's-disease dinner: Jasmine rice. Chicken teriyaki. A tiny salad of iceberg lettuce with ginger dressing – I can pretend it's a vegetable, but the fact that my body tolerated it even when I was at my sickest suggests that it's really just a glass of water you can eat with a fork.

I think back to the year I was sick – really sick, not just this chronic up and down. I started just feeling a bit off, but within months it escalated to the point where I often couldn't sit through a lecture without two or three bathroom trips. I had very little appetite and I kept losing weight. Some nights I was so tired that I would lie down on top of my covers with my clothes on and take a nap. After an hour I'd have enough energy to undress and get under the blankets.

It took the student health service a while to take my symptoms seriously and even longer (and a lot of invasive tests) to get an accurate diagnosis. Once they figured out that it was Crohn's disease, steroids made me feel better within days and gave me an appetite and energy that I hadn't had in a year. They also gave me a completely unmanageable temper – I think I yelled at Snow at least twice before I got off of them and onto a longer term maintenance drug.

So. I guess at least life is better than that these days. My symptoms are minor, though the lasting damage to my gut means I need to eat carefully. My meds leave me vulnerable to infections, but they don't send me on that kind of emotional roller coaster (so I just create one for myself by thinking unreasonable things about Snow).

**Simon**

I wish Mordi had come back to me about the glasses thing, but she can be very determined. Just letting it drop would be irresponsible, so on Saturday morning I start making pancakes. Yes, comfort food for important conversations, AGAIN. I guess it's Ebb's influence. One of the first things that made me start opening up at her place was that there was always enough food, and good food. Meals weren't a fight for sustenance, they were a chance to talk. And even if I didn't feel like talking, she was there, warm and friendly, and she'd let me eat my fill.

I make a stack of plain and a stack of chocolate chip and I holler for Mordi. We sit down to eat and I give it my best shot.

“So. I still want to know what the deal was with you telling Mr. Pitch that you needed glasses.” (It feels very odd to be calling him Mr. Pitch but I assume that's what the students call him.)

She glares at me. “You're just not going to let that drop, are you?”

“I don't think I can. It's my job to know what's going on with you and make sure you have what you need. I still don't know what it was all about, but it sounded like a big deal.”

She sighs. “You realize that I'm only telling you this because I know you won't give up? That I don't want to?”

“Check. We're only having this conversation because I am an enormous pain in the butt.”

She's silent while she eats another pancake. I wait.

“You meant it when you said you don't think I'm stupid?”

“God, yes, Mordi. You're quick and clever and always thinking. If something is a problem at school it's not an issue of your intelligence.”

“I guess you mean that. So. Here's the thing.”

More silence. I wait.

“I suck at reading. Sometimes I have to read something three or four or five times before it even makes sense. I can manage with homework because I can look it over again and again, but that doesn't work for a paired exercise in class. And I was really tired that day and that makes it worse. So the glasses thing just seemed like, I dunno, a way around it.”

“Okay, thank you for telling me that. It sounds like it was really hard for you.”

She rolls her eyes at me. “You _think_?” I know some parents try to stamp out snark and eye-rolling, but right now I'm more invested in Mordi having ways to express her feelings than in being the Tone Police.

“Does it get in your way a lot with school work?”

She prods her pancakes with her fork. That's an advantage of the comfort food approach – we have something to do with our hands. “Well, like I said, I have to read things over and over, so sometimes work takes a long time. But actually if the teacher does good lectures I sometimes don't even really need to do the reading.”

“It sounds like you might have dyslexia. I don't actually know that much about it – I need to do some research. But I bet we can get you some kind of help with that. Maybe some kind of tutoring to make reading easier for you or, I don't know, some kind of way for your work to not involve as much reading, even.”

She presses her lips together and shoots me one of her _looks_ . A Mordi _look_ is a powerful thing. “I don't want this to be a big deal, okay?”

“I get that, but if it's making school harder for you, then it's already a big deal. The question is whether we let it keep biting you in the ankles or we try to do something about it. And I think I need to let Ba- Mr. Pitch know since he's the one who brought it up.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

I finish my last pancake and start cleaning up. I have a lot to think about now.

**From** : Simon Snow

 **To** : T. Basilton Pitch

 **Subject** : Mordelia and reading

Hi Baz. Thanks for being patient while I figured this out. Mordelia says that reading is hard for her and she often has to read things over quite a few times before she can really take them in. The glasses fib was a way of working around that in the moment.

So this sounds to me like it could be dyslexia, but I don't know a lot about that. Do you? Is this something the school can help us figure out? Where do I start?

Also, she doesn't want to “make a big deal of it” plus she thinks this means she's “stupid”. I've made it clear to her that I definitely do ***** not ***** think she's stupid. If you can subtly support this message that would be great.

Thanks!

– Simon

**Baz**

So many things make sense now. Not just the dumb lie about the glasses (I should perhaps have spotted it just from that – an otherwise bright kid making an effort to avoid reading) but also her tension in class, her occasional disruptiveness, and the deep frustration she sometimes shows.

**From** : T. Basilton Pitch

 **To** : Simon Snow

 **Subject** : Re: Mordelia and reading

Snow,

I'm no expert, but you could easily be right. I've had kids with IEPs for dyslexia before. Sometimes they get extra time to take tests. I think in extreme cases they can be allowed to use audio books or readers instead of printed source materials, but I haven't had that be the case in my class. I think if you ask, the school has to evaluate her and see if she qualifies for help. Probably if you start with the 7th grade guidance counselor (Emmeline Possibelf) she can direct your request to the right people.

I agree with you – Mordelia is emphatically _not_ stupid. She is not always a convenient student, but she's bright, perceptive, and witty. She's also sometimes disruptive, and seems anxious as well. Again, I'm not an expert in learning disabilities, but if she's got undiagnosed dyslexia or a similar issue, it could play out in those ways. I'll look for opportunities to give her positive feedback.

I wish you the best of luck in this. Mordelia has a lot of potential – it would be great if some academic support could smooth out some of her current struggles. Please let me know if I can be of any further help.

Best,

Basil

Please, please, please let me know if I can give you any further help. With anything. At all.

Christ, I'm pathetic.

**Simon**

I know a bit about IEPs – some of the kids we work with at the agency have them. I think it stands for Individualized Education Plan, and it's a document that lays out special help a kid is entitled to so they can get a good education. They're for square peg kids who don't fit the factory-standard round holes. If Mordelia is dyslexic, she should have had one years ago. This is just one more thing she didn't get because the system didn't take care of her like it should have. It makes me sad and angry, but the only thing I can actually do about it is pursue getting one now. I'll contact the guidance counselor in the morning, and see if Ebb can give me more info on the IEP process.

Baz was always a real asshole to me in college, but he's been thoroughly reasonable about all this. Helpful, even. Maybe he's grown up a little, or maybe he really takes his job seriously. And it seems like he appreciates Mordelia and wants to figure out how we can help her succeed. I like that. His style is a little snooty (I just can't seem to get over “Best, Basil”), but I can forgive that if he's doing right by my kid.

**Baz**

So apparently Snow and I can interact in a civilized and productive way if I don't have to look at his devastating tawny skin or his moles or his freckles or his curls or his smile and I have time to carefully compose and scrutinize my every word. That's a good thing. It's very appropriate. We're adults now. I'm a teacher, he's a parent. We're doing the things we need to for those roles.

But I'm not getting to look at his skin, moles, freckles, etc.

Except every time I close my eyes.


	3. Late October-Mid December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mordelia gets her IEP, and the process puts Baz and Simon in the same room, and neither of them knows how to cope with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mordelia is not related to Baz; Malcolm never remarried and Baz is an only child.
> 
> This is set in the USA.
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: This chapter briefly discusses past neglect of a child and makes veiled references to past child abuse. 
> 
> I owe even more thanks than usual to my beta readers, @daisy-bug and @tbazzsnow. I struggled with this chapter and they helped me make it much, much better than it started out.

**Simon**

The next morning I get Ebb to give me a crash course in IEPs. I'm glad to hear from her that our school district has a reasonable reputation for dealing fairly with kids and families. She still warns me to do everything by email or snail mail so that there's a paper trail in case of problems. With that in mind, I email the counselor (Ms. Possibelf) rather than calling.

Within a few hours, I have an email from someone in the special education department that has five (five!) attachments. There are two psychological rating scales for me to fill in about Mordi (the one about anxiety is called the SCARED scale – very cute). There's a health history form. There's an assessment plan that lists seven different types of evaluation they want to do on her. And there's a 14 page document that lists our rights within the special education process, full of terms, definitions, and procedures. I'm used to reading similar things for work, but it still looks like fairly heavy going, so I guess I know what I'm doing tonight. And I probably need to start preparing Mordi for all this – seven evaluations is a lot.

I broach the subject over dinner (Taco Tuesday – it's a dumb cultural construct, but it also means one night a week that I don't have to think about what to make). “So, I checked in with Mr. Pitch and he agrees that you might be dyslexic. We need to figure that out, so the school's going to be having you do some evaluations.”

She pokes at her taco. “I'm pretty sure I mentioned that I don't want to make a big deal out of this.”

I sigh. “I know that. But we need to figure out what's making reading hard for you and how we can make that go more smoothly. It should help in the long run but in the short run, yeah, it may be kind of a big deal. Or at least a medium-sized deal.”

She makes a face but we leave it there for the moment.

I hear more about it during our “three things” when she gets home from school on Friday. I've been sitting on the sofa editing a report on my laptop but I stop when she comes in. She throws down her backpack and grabs a glass of water.

“I got called out of science to do testing with the school psychologist today. Their name is Mx. Sanders and people use 'they' to talk about them. I never met anyone like that before.“

“Oh, they're nonbinary. That's cool. What was the testing like?”

“Today it was stuff with vocabulary, so that was kind of fun. But I'm going to have to make up the science work, which kind of sucks. That's one thing.” She drains the glass and gets a handful of pretzels.

“I had meetings straight through from when I got to the office to when I left forty-five minutes ago. We even had a meeting over lunch. I may end up working some this weekend to finish all my reports.”

“That's too bad,” she says, though she doesn't look super sympathetic. Maybe the fact that she has homework nearly every day has something to do with that. “Zoe and me went to drawing club at lunch. She drew this really beautiful elf princess.”

“She's in your art class, right?”

“Yeah, and I think she might be willing to try LARP some time soon too.” She grabs more pretzels and comes to sit by me, silently holding them out to me. I take a couple.

“It was Casual Friday today, and Ebb was wearing this silly sweater covered with super-fluffy sheep,” I say, munching a pretzel.

“I wish I could have seen that. Um... a seagull came into the gym today while we were practicing basketball dribbling. We all had to go outside while the custodian tried to get it out of there.”

“Did they manage it?”

“No, we spent the whole rest of the time outside. We just moved our drills, it wasn't a big deal.”

“The 'needs service' light came on in my car; I need to take it into the shop soon.”

“BO-ring!” she declares, throwing a pretzel at me.

“So?” I ask. “The game isn't 'three fascinating things'; it's just 'three things.'”

“Lucky for you, Mr. Boring Guy.”

**Baz**

I receive an email from the school psychologist asking me to share my thoughts on Mordelia Grimm as part of assessment for IEP eligibility, so I guess Snow has been pursuing that. She continues to be a fascinating challenge, and her foster father continues to be a fascinating distraction. 

Teaching her is like teaching two or three different students. In class discussions, she is very bright and perceptive, both about texts and about other students' ideas and motivations. In her written work, she makes a much more mixed showing – some of that intelligence shines through, but the arguments kind of sprawl and flop on the page. It's like she's really struggling to express herself on paper in a way that she doesn't when she's speaking. And then sometimes she's angry or anxious or, on one memorable occasion, close to tears. I think it was purely her pride that kept her from breaking down. 

As for her father, well, I've dreamed about him at least three times.

**Simon**

Mordi spends several weeks being pulled from class for various assessments, and then Mx. Sanders schedules a meeting to discuss the results. It turns out that I can bring anyone I want to the meeting for support, expertise, or just another set of eyes and ears, so I ask Ebb to come with me. The stakes feel high on this, and she's really good at figuring out what people's agendas are and finding a solution that everyone can buy into. Also, she's my rock when life is scary, though I sure won't introduce her that way. We clock out of work and get in her car.

As she drives, I go over the form that lists the people who will be at the meeting: me; Ebb; the district representative (Ms. Possibelf, the grade counselor); Mx. Sanders; a speech language pathologist; a special education teacher; and a general education teacher – T. Basilton Pitch. Of course. She has four core subject instructors. But of course it makes sense for her English teacher to be the one who is called in to discuss possible dyslexia. And of course it makes sense for the universe to throw me together yet again with this infuriating man. (Though I have to admit he's been decent as we've been emailing about Mordelia. Maybe I need to give him a second chance.)

We get to the school and Ebb parks. She puts a hand on my shoulder and looks me in the eye. “Simon, I can tell you're nervous about this. But I think we're going to find that they want to help Mordelia too, and parents hold a lot of the trump cards in the IEP process. At every step of the way they need your signature to go ahead, even if it's to say no they won't help, and you can withhold that signature until you like what the papers say.”

“Oh, Ebb. You always know what I need to hear.” We hug tight and then get out of the car. After we check in at the main office, Ms. Possibelf introduces herself and ushers us into a conference room. We're the first ones there, but people start joining us quickly. The psychologist is next, and then Baz comes in. 

On Back to School Night, I was so rattled at seeing Baz again that I didn’t really register his appearance. He looks good. He’s slender, but not as gaunt as he sometimes looked in college. His black hair is a bit longer, and his copper skin contrasts nicely with his pale yellow button up shirt. The final accent is some very sharp looking suspenders. It's like his clothes are perfectly chosen to tell the story he wants to put out about himself. Faced with him, I feel like all my clothes do is keep me from being naked. He sits down across from me, and his striking silver eyes meet mine, then dart away quickly.

“Oh, uh, hi Baz”

“Snow.”

“Oh, you know each other?” asks Ms. Possibelf.

“We, uh, were at college together,” I say.

I look away from him as the final specialist enters the room and the meeting starts.

**Baz**

I sit down across from Snow. It's probably not my best choice for being able to maintain my professional composure, but it's also pretty much inevitable, so here we are. I look at him and our eyes lock – his are so blue – and then I look away while I still can. I straighten my notepad and pencil. Anything for something to look at that is not Simon Snow.

Emily Chen, the school's speech therapist, comes in and we start the meeting, passing around a sign-in sheet and introducing ourselves. The middle-aged woman sitting next to Snow is named Ebb Petty. She's a senior social worker and has known Mordelia since a few months before Snow became her foster parent. I know everyone else – they all work at the school.

The special ed teacher, Smruti Patel, hands out the assessment report (over 30 pages) and starts leading us through it page by page. Each participant speaks on the sections that they wrote. Snow starts with some information on Mordelia's background – she's never spent two full successive academic years in a single school district – and the qualities he's found in her in their six months as a family so far. That's how he puts it – as a family. It's clear that he doesn't want to be just another temporary parking place for this kid who's been kicked from one spot to another all her life. He's here to be a parent – I admire that. I also admire his strong forearms, his solid form, and the skin and hair that I've always been so weak for.

Then it's my turn to say what I've observed about Mordelia in my classroom. Of course this means that Snow is looking at me. Snow. Is looking. At me. Fortunately, being a middle school teacher provides a lot of practice in keeping your cool under trying circumstances, so I forge ahead, explaining that she's bright and perceptive but sometimes really on edge.

The psychologist, Rin Sanders, goes next – they wrote the largest portion of the report. They explain that Mordelia is quite intelligent and she does indeed have dyslexia. She's only made it so far by using her considerable intelligence to make up for the difficulties that reading poses for her. The effort involved in this is probably exhausting for her. She's also been working hard to cover it up, and this, as well as the extra effort she has to expend in understanding written material, is ramping up her anxiety. 

We hear from the other experts and wrap up the meeting. The consensus is that Mordelia does qualify for an IEP. Special Ed will draft the plan and we'll all meet to go through the details once it's done.

I'm stacking my papers and getting ready to go when Snow says “Hey Baz, could you wait a minute?”

“Of course.”  _ For you, Simon Snow, I would wait forever _ . It's just us in the room – even the social worker Ebb, who came with him, is waiting out in the hallway. I look across the table at him and focus on keeping my breathing even.

“So, like, first, thank you for your help so far. Like, I don't know when I would have even found out about Mordi's dyslexia if you hadn't sent that email. If you just let it drop.” He looks at me with real gratitude, and I glow inside from the idea that he's pleased by something I've done. I scramble for something to say back to him.

“I'm glad I could help. She's got a lot of promise and the right interventions and support could really smooth the way for her.”

“Yeah, that's what I wanted to ask you about. She doesn't have an IEP yet, but in the meantime, is it okay if I sometimes help her out by reading things to her? She's been managing by reading things over and over, but that sometimes makes her work take a really long time.”

“That's a good idea,” I say. “If you want, when we're going to be reading something in class, I could send it to you a day or two ahead so that the two of you can go over it.” And I'll have one more reason to communicate with him, but really, I'd do it for any student who needed it, even if their dad wasn't a total dreamboat. I think I would. I hope I would.

He smiles, lighting up his face. I try not to bask too obviously. “That would be great, thanks!”

I'm momentarily speechless, but then I'm literally saved by the bell. “I should go. Anyway. Best of luck to both of you.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Did I just actually just have a conversation with Simon Snow during which I did not insult him even once? I would not have thought myself capable of that.

**Simon**

I'm so glad that the school is prepared to help Mordi with this. I really am grateful to Baz for his help making this happen. I always thought he was a complete asshole, but apparently he really teaches for the kids' benefit, not just a paycheck. I find Ebb in the hallway and we go back to the car.

“Thank you so much for coming, Ebb. Having you there with me was really grounding. And since I'm not raising Mordelia with a partner, having other adults to support her is important.”

“I remember what it was like, being a single foster parent. And I'm so proud of you for doing this and I want to help you any way I can. Mordi is like my foster grandkid.” She looks thoughtfully at me as she starts the car. “So that teacher is the one you said was a jerk in college? He seemed fine today.” She backs out of the space.

“Yeah, he did. He's been pretty cool through this process, actually. He says Mordi is very perceptive in class discussions, and I like it when people appreciate her.”

“There's a lot there to appreciate, so that's very sensible of him.” She seems like she might be about to say something more about Baz, but then she doesn't.

After another two weeks, the special education teacher sends me a draft IEP. It has some helpful accommodations, like having course material read to her, voice recognition text entry, additional time for tests, and even training in enhanced study skills. But there’s no plan to actually improve her ability to read.

I reply, asking why that is. I get a lot of jargon about intensive remediation and data on the minimal improvements noted with interventions in middle school kids.

But Mordelia isn't a typical middle school kid. She's never had a consistent school environment or anyone advocating for her.

I push back. I get that it's going to take commitment on Mordi's part but I think she deserves the chance to decide whether she thinks it’s worth it.

I tell her I'll discuss it with Mordi and get back to her.

I bring it up that afternoon after our three things (Mordi: sex ed starts next week, Baz wore turquoise wingtips, and her science teacher will be going on maternity leave. Me: I had Ethiopian food for lunch, my sample ballot came and I'm dreading researching the 13 initiatives, and I found a five dollar bill on my way to lunch and gave it to the next panhandler I saw.)

“So, I got the draft IEP from the school. They have a bunch of things they can make available to you to help, like ways to listen to text instead of reading it. But there's also a big choice, one that you have to have a big say in.”

“Oh?” We're sitting on the sofa; she picks up a ballpoint pen from the coffee table and starts fidgeting with it.

“There's a tutoring method that might help you learn to read more easily, but it would take a lot of work from you.”

She's clicking the pen up and down. Click-click. Click-click. Click-click. She doesn't say anything.

“So, do you think that's something you want to try?” I kind of want to grab the pen out of her hand, but if it's soothing her or helping her I think it's not for me to do that. I had one year when I bounced this red rubber ball everywhere I went until a worker in a group home confiscated it, and I still get hurt and angry when I think about the loss.

Click-click. Click-click. “What do you think I should do?”

“I think that if there's an investment you can make now that could make the whole rest of your life easier, it's a great opportunity. I also think you're determined enough to make it work.”

Click-click. Click-click. Click-click. “Is it all or nothing? Like, if I try it but I hate it, what would happen?”

“Well, I would want you to try to stick it out, but from what I've seen, IEPs can always be revised if something's not a fit.”

She starts to draw flowers on her left hand. “I guess I could try it.”

“I'm glad. I'll ask them to put it in the IEP. We’ll have a meeting to discuss it in a few weeks, and you get to be there for part of it. There will be people there who can answer any questions about the tutoring, and that’s when we’ll decide for sure whether you’ll be trying it.”

**Baz**

A month after the assessment meeting, we have the IEP meeting. I'm the first one to the conference room this time – possibly I'm a bit eager to see Snow. I'm soon joined by Rin and Emily, then Smruti brings in Snow and Ebb. He looks as gorgeous as always, wearing a blue shirt today. Finally, Emmy Possibelf brings in Mordelia. She looks a little nervy – I imagine being the subject of a meeting of seven adults is a bit intimidating. We've all met, but we do brief introductions anyway while the sign-in sheet goes around. We go through the 19 page document section by section.

There’s not much to discuss on the early sections. We all agree that Mordelia needs the IEP, and why, and she and Simon seem happy with the accommodations. But when we get to the section on services, Simon’s looks dissatisfied. I ask about it. “Simon, do you have an issue with this?”

“So, the school is going to teach her to color code her notes. She could probably use that. Heck, I should do that. But there’s nothing in here about actually teaching her to read better.”

Smruti, the special ed teacher, tries to soothe him. “That would be wonderful if it were possible. But we don’t generally do reading instruction in middle school. Students this age have generally achieved whatever level of proficiency they’re going to reach.”

Simon twists his pen in his fingers. “Maybe, but Mordi’s not typical. When the kids in this district were learning phonics, she was more worried about having enough to eat. She attended three different schools during her kindergarten year, and she actually got moved out of her home placement during first grade because of truancy – the people she was living with couldn’t always be bothered to take her to school.” There’s a muscle flexing in his jaw and he stops there and looks at Mordelia. I think there might be more he would want to say if she weren’t in the room.

Rin, the psychologist, asks “Mordelia, what’s your opinion on this?”

“If I can read better, I want to. It’s nice that you guys will let me listen to stories for Mr. Pitch’s class instead of reading them, but the whole world isn’t like that. If I can read better, I can take care of myself better. And I want to be able to take care of myself.” She looks determined and Simon looks proud.

“And you understand that it will take a lot of work from you? You would have sessions at school for an hour a time, 2 or 3 times a week, plus daily practice for 20-30 minutes.”

“That’s a lot. But if I’m getting to listen to school books once instead of reading them five times, that should balance it out. I want to do it.”

The group is swayed by their arguments, and we end up deciding that she can have reading instruction. The meeting breaks up soon after and people filter out. I congratulate Mordelia on the results, and then, after she leaves the room, I walk over to where Snow is standing up and gathering his things. “Congratulations to you, too. You did a great job advocating for her. Every kid should have such a fierce protector.”

He looks at me. “Yeah. Yeah, they should,” he says darkly. Then he shakes his head as if to loosen up something stuck there. “Sorry. I have some pretty strong feelings about kids who don’t get what they need.”

“I can see that. And I really admire it.” I feel a need to lighten the mood. “Well, if any kid can make a go of re-learning to read halfway through school, Mordelia can.”  I don't think I ever been this effortlessly civil to him.

I could get used to this.

**Simon**

I’m so glad that Mordelia’s going to get this chance to grow past some of her previous limitations. Her rough background includes worse than truancy and hunger, but I wasn’t going to go into that with her in the room. 

What was up with Baz? He wasn’t just polite, he was complimentary. It’s not what I expect from him at all, and it leaves me feeling unsettled. There’s a fluttery feeling in my chest that can’t decide what it wants to be. I shake my head again and go to join Ebb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! New chapters come out every other day.


	4. February

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected injury; a sudden illness; an encounter in the emergency room. Simon is tender with Baz in a way that neither of them expects or is ready to understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks as always to my lovely betas, @daisy-bug and @tbazzsnow!

**Wednesday**

**Simon**

It's a Wednesday and I'm at the office late. I try to always be at the apartment when Mordelia gets home from school, but on Wednesday she LARPs for hours, so I can stay on and get some paperwork done and meet with colleagues face-to-face. I'm finishing the report on an intake interview when I get a call from the guy who runs the LARP. Apparently she tripped while chasing some goblins and landed badly on her wrist. I tell him I'll be there as soon as I can – unfortunately that's going to be at least a half hour.

When I get there, Mordi has her right forearm supported by her left hand, and she's gripping it tightly. Her right wrist is swollen and not quite the right color, a little darker than it should be. “Oof, Mordi, that looks bad. How are you doing?”

“I'm okay. I guess,” she says, but her jaw is clenched. I think I see tear tracks on her cheeks (which I am NOT going to mention).

“I'm taking you to the ER. Where's your stuff?” I pick up her backpack and broadsword (my kid has a broadsword! How cool is that?) and we get in the car. I give her some Tylenol and off we go. She's not complaining, but I can tell from her breathing that every little bump the car hits hurts her.

When we get to the ER, they take her information and we have a seat. We're sitting there, looking at the wide variety of other people waiting, when she nudges me with her left elbow. “Dad!” she hisses. (Oh my God, she called me Dad. That's the first time that's happened. I will not make a big deal of it – I repeat I will NOT make a big deal of it – but I will remember this moment forever.)

“What?” I whisper back.

“I think that's Mr. Pitch!” She gestures with her chin. There's a guy at the far end of the row of chairs facing us. He has long black hair and he's huddled miserably over a container held in his lap – it looks like it might be a wastebasket. And while it's hard to tell behind that curtain of hair, it looks like Baz.

“I think you're right. I wonder what's wrong?” She doesn't know that I know him from college or that I have anything more than a casual interest in him, and this doesn't seem like the time to bring it up.

“It looks like he's been puking.” Sure enough, he gives a miserable-looking dry heave. “Is he here by himself? Poor guy. Could you, I don't know, go see if you can help him somehow?” She's in a lot of pain herself – there's a sheen of sweat on her forehead – but she's still thinking about somebody else. The more I know this kid the fonder I get of her.

“I should be here with you. He's an adult, he can take care of himself.” And I would feel very, very awkward, but I don't say that part.

“I'm okay so long as I don't move my arm. Well, mostly okay. And he looks awful. I'd go over but getting up would hurt. Please could you talk to him?”

I close my eyes briefly and take a deep breath. I can do this. I walk over to the guy and I see that it is, indeed, Baz. His skin is lacking its usual red undertones, leaving it a flat medium brown, kind of like a paper grocery bag. I kneel down to get on his level. “Baz? Are you okay?”

He looks at me with tired, slightly blank eyes. He lifts one eyebrow as if to suggest that I am the world's biggest idiot which, trust me, I feel like.

“I mean, obviously you're not okay. Just. Mordelia wanted me to see if we could help. And I want to help, too, obviously, it's not just her. Just. Can I help?”

“Oh, stop babbling, Snow. I'll be all right.” He winces. “I'm not in danger, it's a purely mechanical problem. This is just going to be very tedious.”

“What's going on?”

He hesitates. “Intestinal obstruction.” He lolls his head back and takes a deep breath. “It hurts like hell and I'm dry as a bone from not drinking all day. I'll be fine in a few days. Maybe sooner.” He's got hair stuck to his face and he looks sweaty and rumpled (and not in a good way). “The waiting sucks, is all.”

He heaves again. I think he might want to send me away but doesn't have the energy. I don't like seeing him like this. I mean, I wouldn't want to see anybody like this, but Baz is always so elegant and self-possessed. This lolling and heaving is not right.

“Look, can I. Is it okay.” I stop talking and reach out and stroke the lank hair off his face and behind his ear. I get an idea. I reach in my pocket, and in with my wallet and keys I find one of Mordelia's hair ties. “Here, let me.” I put his hair back in a ponytail. He closes his eyes and leans into my hand. I'm stuck there trying to figure out where to go from here when I hear someone call “Miss Grimm? Mordelia Grimm?”

“That's us, I've got to go. But here, text me if you need anything.” I pull out one of my county business cards, scribble my personal cell number on it, and slide it into his shirt pocket.

“Miss Grimm?”

I touch his shoulder, as if I could push some strength into him, and turn to Mordelia, who's getting slowly to her feet. We follow the nurse out of the room.

**Baz**

Simon Snow touched my face, gently and tenderly. I didn't expect that. How bad must I look for him to have done that? It felt so nice. And I just leaned into it like it was home. These waiting room purgatories always feel weirdly distant afterwards, but I hope I'll remember that. I close my eyes and think about his hand and in a little while a nurse comes and calls me back.

I don't see Snow or Mordelia here but that's fine. It's all pretty undignified and I'm just as glad not to have a student or a ...whatever Snow is to me seeing and hearing. It's bad enough that they saw me huddled over a plastic wastebasket and heaving.

It's the usual routine of talking and waiting and an IV and waiting and more talking and imaging and waiting and waiting and talking and waiting. The IV is sweet, sweet nectar – I feel not dry for the first time in hours. The x-ray makes it clear that I'm obstructed (which I had been quite certain of, even if the resident wasn't. This is not my first rodeo.)

They finally admit me and move me to a room at 3:30 in the morning. I email the school from my phone to let them know that I'm going to need at least one sick day and probably two. I notice that my battery is already down to 25%, and I didn't think to bring my charger. I'll deal with that in the morning. I turn on my side, being careful not to kink or lie on the IV. I touch my cheek where Snow's hand was and drift off.

**Simon**

Mordi's wrist turns out to be broken. They put on a splint; I need to take her to the orthopedist Friday morning to get a cast put on after the swelling's had a chance to go down. They give her a pain pill and give me a prescription for a few more – they say that after a day or two over the counter pain relievers should take care of it. Between the x-rays and the waiting we’re back there for nearly two hours. By the time we leave, it's a bit past our usual dinner time.

“Do you want to go out for dinner, or wait until we get home?”

“I dunno, I'm really hungry but really I just want to go back to the apartment. I'm so tired.”

I find a granola bar from a vending machine and then we head out.

“So you were chasing goblins when this happened?”

“Yes! They had the treasure we wanted. I stepped in a stupid rut in the field and went down hard. The others got them, though!”

“Good! I'd hate to think they got away with it. So – is this going to mean no LARP while you heal?” They said that the cast would probably have to stay on for at least a month, but the orthopedist would be able to tell us more.

“I should still be able to play. I can go to the market and do negotiations and get information at the tavern and stuff. And when there's no role playing to do I can be a combat referee or just watch.”

“That's cool. I know you would miss it if you couldn't go.”

“Yeah. I won't really be able to fight and that kind of sucks. If healing magic was real like in the game I'd be better already!”

We get home and I make grilled cheese for us and she gets to bed early; I think the pain killer is making her sleepy. It's my first down time since I got the phone call – since then I've been rushing to her, trying to make good decisions, being a container for her feelings, and oh, yeah, that thing with Baz. I clean up from dinner as I think about it all.

It's the first time Mordi's been seriously hurt since I became her foster parent. It was kind of a breathless experience. Like, physically I wasn't hurting, but emotionally it was almost like I was. I just wanted to make it ALL BETTER but of course I couldn't. I got her the best care I could, but I couldn't make it un-happen, and I couldn't feel it for her. All I could do was be there. I hope having me there was better than not. I think it was, I guess.

Baz looked really awful. He said it would all be okay, and it sounds like he's been through this before, so I guess he knows. He's always been so snotty and prickly that it was really weird seeing him being worn and sagging, not proud and self-possessed. Is that what made me nearly caress his face? Was I glad to be able to give some tenderness to SOMEBODY, even if it wasn't Mordi? That sounds kind of messed up. Anyway, the way he leaned into it, I think it gave him some comfort, so I'm glad of that. Probably whenever I see him again those walls will be back up and it will be like that moment never happened. Still, I google “intestinal obstruction” before I go to bed.

**Thursday**

In the morning, I check on Mordi. She's still asleep and I figure she needs the rest, so I grab my phone to message the school that she'll be staying home and the office that I need to take a family day. I see a text from an unknown number.

**(unknown number) 7:14am** Hello Snow.

Right. I gave Baz my number, said he should let me know if he needed anything.

**Simon 7:52am** Baz? How are you today?

**(unknown number) 7:53am** Not too bad. Tired. Bored.

**Simon 7:54am** you're in the hospital?

**(unknown number) 7:55am** Yes. I'll probably be here until at least tomorrow.

**(unknown number) 7:56am** I was wondering, do you have a spare iPhone charger?

**(unknown number) 7:57am** I didn't think to bring mine and I'm running low on charge.

**Simon 7:59am** yes, sure, but Mordi's still sleeping

**Simon 8:00am** I could probably come in a couple of hours

**Simon 8:01am** is that ok?

**(unknown number) 8:03am** Yes, that would be great. Thanks.

**(unknown number) 8:04am** Doctor's coming in, talk to you later.

**Baz**

Morning rounds as usual – no big news from me or them – and then I'm left to contemplate the universe and my place in it. I've been through obstructions before. I have scar tissue and narrow places in my gut from my disease and sometimes stuff just gets caught. With luck, my body can move it all through eventually. The hospital isn't really treating me, just watching my vital signs and giving me fluids while we wait for things to improve.

In the meantime, there's not much to do. I could surf the net, but I don't want to burn through my battery until Snow brings me a charger. And there's a television, but really, I don' t think daytime TV is likely to make me like the world any better. I get up and start walking laps around the ward (always encouraged to get things moving). I push my IV pole along with me as I go.

Why did I choose Snow to contact for a charger? I have friends or co-workers who would have helped out. Or hell, I probably could have gotten a new one delivered today – they don't cost that much. But he touched my cheek and scribbled his number and slid his card into my pocket right there on my chest. After that, I don't think I could have  _ not _ texted him. I'm too weak for that. A little extra weak right now, on 4 hours of sleep and no food for 24 hours. After I get back to my room, I lie down and close my eyes.

I wake up again to the buzzing of my phone. It's Snow.

**Snow 9:27am** i could come by now?

**TBP 9:30am** I'm not going anywhere.

**Snow 9:33am** i guess not

**Snow 9:33am** what room number?

**TBP 9:34am** C-316

**Snow 9:35am** ok, see you in 20-30 min

**TBP 9:36am** Thanks, see you

Time for a few more laps around the ward before he gets here, but only a few because I don't want to miss him.

Or that was my plan, but as I head out of the room I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

I look like shit.

And the most gorgeous man I know is on his way here.

I mean, it's not like anything will ever happen between us, but I've still got my pride, or I try to have, even where he's concerned.

I'm wearing a rumpled hospital gown, my skin looks flat and lifeless, my hair – my hair's in the ponytail he put it in, but it's been pulled askew in my sleep. I start there – I take the hair tie out (it's pink with purple stripes – Mordelia's, I suppose) and run my fingers through my hair, then pull it back again. Am I going to keep this gaudy elastic band forever, like some kind of love token? And did I just think “love token?” My God.

Anyway. I splash water on my face and scrub with my hands. I'm not using the harsh hospital soap if I can possibly avoid it. I rinse my mouth thoroughly with a handful of water, then pat my face dry with paper towels. That's got a little color into my cheeks. I smooth my eyebrows with my fingers, and I guess that's what I can do for my face. I could ask for a fresh gown, but they might take a while to get around to it, and I don't want to be in the middle of changing when he gets here. I straighten the one I'm wearing and smooth it out with my hands, and I guess that's the best I can do.

Okay,  _ one  _ lap around the ward, and then I sit on the bed to wait (there's only one chair and I want it to be free for Simon).

**Simon**

Mordi says she'd rather stay home than come with me while I bring Baz a charger. (I don't mind leaving her home for an hour or two during the day if it's not too often.) I stop at the drugstore to get a cheap charger (I hope it works okay) and then I stop in front of the nearby bookstore, struck by a thought. Baz said he was bored. I know that he can do things on his phone, but maybe he'd like a book. I have no idea what he likes, though. Classy stuff, I guess, whatever that is? I dart in before I can overthink it and I explain the situation to the clerk.

In a few minutes I'm back out the door with the latest Best American Short Stories anthology. She offered to wrap it but that seems like too much. I mean it isn't a present, exactly, it's just something I'm bringing to someone in the hospital. Who isn't expecting it. Okay, I guess that kind of is a present. Whatever. If it was gift wrapped it might seem like a big deal and I don't want that.

I drive to the hospital and find the regular parking (yesterday I parked by the ER). It's a pretty big place but I find his room. The door's open, so I knock on it and poke my head in. He's got the head of his bed tilted up and he's sitting up, kind of drowsing. He jerks his head up when I knock.

“Hello, Snow. Come in.” He nods to a chair beside the bed and I sit down. He looks tired but good considering the circumstances. There’s a little color in his cheeks -- certainly more than in the waiting room yesterday. He's wearing a hospital gown and has an IV in his arm and an identification bracelet on his wrist. “Thank you for coming.”

“I'm glad I could help. Oh, here.” I hand him the cord.

“Thank you, it will be a relief to not worry about charge.” He looks at the packaging. “I didn't mean for you to go out and buy one. I just thought you might have one.”

“It's no big deal; it was right on the way. Oh, you said you were bored, so I also got this.” I hand him the bag from the bookstore. He looks at me in a way I can't quite interpret and draws out the book.

“That's so thoughtful, really, you didn't need to.”

“I just kind of wanted to. You haven't read it already?”

“No, and it's the perfect thing for a hospital attention span and the constant interruptions. Thank you.”

I kind of sit there for a minute, not sure what to say next. And then I realize that something's been bothering me, or maybe worrying me.

“So, last night you said this wasn't serious, but I googled intestinal obstruction and it sounds like it can be dangerous. Are you sure you're going to be okay?”

“I think so. I mean, it can be bad and it can mean emergency surgery. But I've been through this before, and it's always cleared up without surgery for me. I'll start taking sips of water some time today and we'll work up from there. When I can eat food without getting sick they'll send me home.”

“How many times has this happened?”

“This is my third or fourth time being hospitalized. Sometimes, if it's just pain but I can keep water down I wait it out at home. I have no count of how often that's happened.”

**Baz**

This isn't the conversation I want to be having. I don't want his sympathy, and I don't want to get into any more of the unpleasant details of my disease. As I said, I try to keep my pride intact, even around the devastating Simon Snow. I introduce a new topic to get us off of me.

“So how's Mordelia? It's her you were at the ER for, right?”

“Yes. She broke her wrist, poor kid. And it's on her writing hand, too.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. I should be back at school on Monday and we can figure out how she can do her school work.”

“Cool, thanks. And I guess I should be getting home to her. Would you...could you text me when you're discharged? I just kind of want to know you're okay.”

“I'll do that. Thank you again for the charger – and the book.”

“It's nothing. Bye.”

“Goodbye, Snow.”

He leaves, and I sit there holding a copy of Best American Short Stories. Simon Snow brought me a gift. That's not a thing I thought would ever happen. I close my eyes and bring the book up to my face, leaning on it with my nose and forehead. I can't quite believe this, let alone figure out what, if anything, it means. Probably just that he's a thoroughly nice guy. I sigh and then I lower it, open it, and start to read.

**Friday**

I started sipping clear liquids yesterday after Simon left. I got a very exciting dinner of chicken broth, jello, and fruit ice. It all stayed down, so three cheers for progress. I'm actually a little bit hungry when I wake up, for the first time in days. On morning rounds the doctors say they'll advance me to full liquids, so I get even more exciting things like yogurt and pudding. In between small quantities of food and drink, I walk the ward. When I'm not walking, I read short stories. Some of them have potential for use in class.

By late afternoon, I manage to eat half a sandwich. It might be that if I insisted I could get discharged today, but if there's no emergency it's hard to get anything to happen quickly in a hospital. It's not as if there's anybody waiting for me, so I'll wait until morning rounds. They can start the paperwork then and I'll probably get out around lunchtime.

**Snow 7:15pm** how are you doing?

**TBP 7:17pm** Better, thanks. I ate half a sandwich this afternoon and I expect to go home tomorrow.

**Snow 7:18pm** that's great!

**Snow 7:25pm** wait a minute

**Snow 7:25pm** how are u getting home?

**Snow 7:26pm** I mean you didn't drive yourself to the ER did you?

**Snow 7:27pm** sick like that?

**TBP 7:31pm** I took an Uber. I can get home the same way.

**Snow 7:32pm** that's not right, you've been sick

**Snow 7:33pm** I'll drive you

**TBP 7:37pm** There's no need. I'll be perfectly fine.

**Snow 7:38pm** I know there's no need

**Snow 7:38pm** you're a big boy and you can take care of yourself

**Snow 7:39pm** totally independent, don't need any other humans

**Snow 7:40pm** but I'd like to

**Snow 7:45pm** please?

**TBP 7:52pm** Fine. I'll text you when my discharge order comes through.

**TBP 7:53pm** It's hard to say when that will be.

Have I mentioned that I'm weak?

**Simon**

I'm not sure why I insisted on going to pick up Baz. It's not like we're friends. But Jesus, that poor guy. He was flat out miserable in the waiting room the other night and he was by himself. I'm betting he was crouched over that wastebasket the whole time in that Uber. And if I'm the one he asked to bring him a charger cord, he probably didn't have any visits from anybody else. So he's just been there alone for two days, and I doubt he's the type to have made any warm fuzzy friendships with the nurses. I was teasing him in my texts about how independent he is, but I think that's probably a real thing about him, that he makes himself not need anybody or show any weakness.

That dumbass.

People like to help, and it feels good to let them, if you can trust them enough. I know about that tough-guy thing. I lived in at least a dozen different settings by the time I was 16 and I made sure not to need anybody. It took me a long time to trust that Ebb meant well for me and would keep her promises, and it's taking a long time to get Mordi to trust me in those same ways. Mordi and I got that way from abandonment and bad foster care. I wonder what happened to Baz?

Of course, it's not my job to make him let me in, the way it is with her. But apparently part of me wants to.

**Saturday**

**Baz**

As expected, the doctors on morning rounds say that since I ate solid food yesterday with no problems, I can be discharged today. They'll put the orders in after rounds, at around 10 am. I'm sure it will take some time for all the stupid little steps of discharge to be carried out, but I should be able to leave by noon. Now that I know that, I can text the information to Snow.

But I don't want to.

I  _ will _ do it – I said I would, and I can't imagine ever passing up a chance to be near him. But I don't like taking help and I don't want to look weak to him. I can take care of myself.

**TBP 8:17am** Good morning.

**Snow 8:35am** hi Baz. are they sending you home today like you thought?

**TBP 8:36am** Yes. Are you still insisting on driving me?

**Snow 8:37am** yes

**Snow 8:37am** im stubborn like that

**Snow 8:38am** so what time should I come get u

**TBP 8:40am** I could meet you at the front entrance at noon.

**Snow 8:41am** sounds good see u then

**Simon**

I pull up in front of the hospital a few minutes past noon (I have trouble being on time for anything, ever – organization is not my strong suit). Baz is sitting in a wheelchair near the door, accompanied by someone in scrubs with a name badge. I stop and the staff person wheels him over to my car. He tries the handle but I left it locked. Dammit. It makes me feel awkward. I unlock it and Baz stands up out of the wheelchair and gets in. He looks tired, but I don't think he'll like it if I say that. He's so careful of his appearance, plus there's the fierce independence thing.

I try “It's good to see you back in real clothes,” instead.

“It feels good, too, even though I wish they were clean. And that I'd had a shower.”

“So where are we heading?”

He tells me where he lives – it's not too far from my place. I pull away from the curb and we're quiet for a while. I continue to feel awkward.

“So you'll be back teaching on Monday?”

“Yes. I could work tomorrow if I needed to. The good thing about an obstruction is that when it's over, it's over. I need to make up the lost sleep and food, but other than that I'm fine.”

“Good. That's good.” See what I mean? Awkward. I'm not sure what's up with me today. We continue in silence until we're near his building, then he directs me the last few blocks and I pull up in front.

“Thank you for the lift, Snow. You really didn't have to.”

“I know I didn't have to. I wanted to.”

“Well, thank you.”

“You know, it's okay to let people help sometimes, even when you're not in a desperate emergency. People helping each other makes the world better. It makes people closer. So just, don't feel like you always have to do everything for yourself, okay?” I feel kind of like I'm babbling, but I also feel like it's a thing it could do him some good to hear, if he's able to let it in.

“Okay. Right. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Baz.”

**Baz**

I wish I had done a better job talking to Snow in the car. I wasn't mean, which is all to the good, but I also wasn't witty or talkative. It's natural enough – I haven't eaten or slept properly in days, and he was  _ right there,  _ looking good and smelling better. A bit of a bakery smell, and maybe sweat...kind of like a manly cinnamon roll. Definitely edible. I let myself into my apartment, set the book he gave me down on the coffee table, and head for the bathroom – I smell like a hospital, and I haven't had a shower since Wednesday.

What was that he was saying?  _ It's okay to let people help sometimes...it makes people closer. _ Does he want to be closer to me? To me, personally, in an I-like-this-person way? There's no reason to think that. I shouldn't get my hopes up.

But I can't help myself.


	5. April

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance encounter. Revelations. Simon finds out why he keeps getting that fluttery feeling in his chest when he's around Baz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baz is not related to Mordelia; Malcolm never remarried and Baz is an only child.
> 
> This is set in the USA.
> 
> Huge thanks to my beta readers, @tbazzsnow and @daisy-bug!

**Baz**

I've signed up as one of the chaperones for the “Spring Fling” dance. We're all expected to help at a certain number of extracurricular activities and this one seems as harmless as any. After an early dinner, I change into a subdued floral shirt – I avoid florals on school days, but it feels like I can go a little more out there for this – and drive to school. I park and enter the cafeteria. Only about half the lights are on, and it's decorated with masses of paper flowers. There's a line of kids outside the door, but they haven't started being admitted yet.

**Simon**

Mordelia's been talking about the Spring Fling dance on and off for weeks. She didn't go to the fall or winter dances, but Zoe apparently talked her into this one. (I think they're just going as friends; I haven't gotten a romantic vibe from Mordelia when she talks about her.) Apparently as well as music and dancing they have snacks and a room of board games. It sounds pretty tame.

Anyway, since I knew she wanted to go, I signed up when I got the email looking for chaperones. I haven't really done any volunteering at the school yet and it's good to be involved. I might also get a chance to see Mordelia interacting with her peers. She tells me a bunch of things about school – “three things” is great for that; Ebb is a genius – but that's her point of view, filtered through what she wants me to know. I'd like to see it a bit from the outside too.

We have an early dinner, then drive towards school. I actually park a couple of blocks away, near the public library, since I expect the school parking lot to be kind of crazed. She gets in line to show her student ID to get into the dance and I go inside to get briefed on my duties.

We're supposed to make sure the kids are being safe and following some simple rules: no PDA, no cell phones, no overtly sexual dancing, and follow the dress code. They get checked for dress code at the door, but apparently occasionally a student will take something off or hike something up during the event.

We're also resources for any students who approach us with problems, which can be anything from an injury to bullying. For most of those possibilities, we're supposed to refer them to one of the teacher or administrator chaperones, who will be wearing blue armbands. We're expected to circulate and make sure that adults are fairly evenly distributed throughout the space. I find myself a place at one end of the cafeteria and watch as the kids start to come in.

It's then, as I'm watching the first of the kids enter, that I see him. Baz Pitch, standing against the wall near the door, wearing a patterned shirt and perfectly cut slim trousers. My stomach does a funny little backflip.

Why would it do that?

I know why he gave me nerves at Back to School night. I hadn't seen him in years, and back in college he'd said mean things at every opportunity. But since then we've worked together on Mordelia's education, we've had conversations, I've visited him in the hospital and driven him in my car. He's actually one of Mordelia's favorite teachers; she says he's snarky without being mean. Clearly he's grown up from the nasty guy he was then. So why the backflip?

Well, figuring that out isn't a priority right now; watching the kids is, so I turn my attention to them, scanning the room for problems or for anybody I know. I see Mordi come in along with Zoe. She waves at me but doesn't come over; I guess parents aren't cool. That's fine. I'm here to watch from a distance and catch the general vibe.

**Baz**

I start out over by the door, making sure the kids don't go crazy running into the party space. They seem to be keeping it together, so I scan the room, and then I see him. Simon Snow is standing against the opposite wall. He looks rumpled and lovely as always. From this distance I can properly see his build, a bit stockier than it was in college. There would be plenty to hold on to (which is a very appealing idea and really not a suitable way to think about a student's parent).

In a weak moment, I looked up the district’s policy on teachers dating the parents of students. It doesn't actually seem to be against the rules, but it's also immediately obvious that it would be a bad idea. If he even wanted to, which there's no reason to think he would. But just saying hello would be all right, there's nothing sketchy about that. And there's no way to avoid it, really, weak and infatuated as I am. The best I can do is try to make it look casual, a sort of general wander across the room as opposed to making a beeline for him.

I set off in more or less that direction, stopping as I go to say hello to a former student who's staffing the snack table, to chat briefly with Emmy Possibelf, to look at the decorations and straighten my cuffs. Each time I change direction a little bit, but always trending towards Snow. I skirt the dance floor, where a few of the bolder students (drama club types, at a guess) are starting to move. I make it to within five feet of him. He's looking at me with a smile – it lights up his face as always; the sunshine he can put out into the world has always been one of the most appealing things about him. I'm not used to having the full force of it directed at me.

I nod, attempting nonchalance, hands in my pockets. “Snow.”

“Hi, Baz, it's good to see you. Have you been keeping out of the hospital?”

“Yes, thanks. Mind if I stand by you? That way we can keep scanning the room like dutiful chaperones, but have someone to talk to.” I don't say that it will also be easier to keep my composure if we're not face to face, if there's no risk of eye contact.

“That would be great.”

**Simon**

Soon after I spotted him, Baz started drifting away from the entrance. I can't tell if he's coming over to me or just happening to end up near me, but he greets me and I get another of those funny little backflips. We end up side by side against the wall, our shoulders a few inches apart, hands in our pockets, scanning the room for trouble spots. I'm also scanning for something to talk about.

I see a group of three boys dancing. They're goofing off and having a great time just being silly together. “I didn't go to a lot of middle school dances, but I kind of get the feeling that if I had, I wouldn't have seen boys dancing together like that. What about you?”

“I sometimes went. You're right, there wasn't as much freedom for the boys to express themselves physically without violence or sports.”

“I'm happy for them that they have those choices now.” I scuff at the floor with my foot.

The music is kind of loud, and Baz leans his head towards mine so I can hear him better. “Stop me if I'm prying, but this sounds kind of personal for you.”

“Yeah, well, I might have figured out that I was bisexual sooner if there had been more freedom like that. It might have made some things easier.”

**Baz**

Oh God. Simon Snow just said he's bisexual. One of my greatest defenses against his charms, the belief that I was yearning in vain because he could never be interested, is gone. “Oh. In college I thought you were straight,” I say, perhaps a bit lamely.

“Well, that's not too surprising. In college  _ I _ thought I was straight.”

“This is none of my business... But, if you don't mind saying, how did you figure it out?”

“Well, I dated Aggie all through my years at State. You probably met her?”

“Long blonde hair, athletic, biology major?”

“That's Aggie. Well, we broke up when we were headed different ways after graduation. And honestly, I don't think we were ever the right two people. Then I did a six week certificate program in case management, and one of the guy students asked me out to dinner. I was so clueless that I didn't realize it was a date until he kissed me.” He laughs gently at himself.

“And you liked it?”

“Yeah, I liked it a lot once I got over the surprise.” He smiles. “We didn't end up together, just had a couple more dates, but I liked it. Anyway, I've dated a few different people since then, men and women. Nothing's worked out long term, and the reasons it didn't work with the men were about the same as the reasons it didn't work with the women.”

We're both silent for a few minutes, listening to the music and watching the kids. I'd like to ask what the things that stopped his relationships from working were, but that really feels a step too far, even for this surprisingly intimate conversation.

“What about you?” he asks.

“I'm gay. I've dated a few guys. Nobody for more than about six months, but hope springs eternal.” Well. It's out there. Both of us are romantically interested in men, and it sounds like we're both single at the moment. I can't take it any farther than that. I just can't. Not while I'm Mordelia's teacher. I also can't just end the interaction now, let that be the last note. That would be too obvious.

His shoulder is just a few inches away from mine. I'm probably imagining the warmth I feel there. “I think we're supposed to circulate around the room,” I say. “But we could circulate together. Walk with me?” He nods and we push off the wall.

**Simon**

The next day I'm at a deli near the office having lunch with Ebb. “So, I went to this school dance as a chaperone last night. Baz Pitch was there too, and we ended up talking a bunch. It's weird, even though we've been getting along fine, he still makes me nervous. I don't get it.”

“Oh Simon,” she says. “Do you really not know?”

“What do you mean?”

She sets her sandwich down and straightens her silverware as if to give herself a chance to organize her thoughts. “Well, remember I saw the two of you at both of those IEP meetings. And it seemed, well, it seemed like you liked each other.”

I'm puzzled, and I think it must show in my face. “I mean, I guess he's okay...”

“I mean, it seemed like you were attracted to each other. You were both always either looking at each other or not looking at each other.”

“Well, those are kind of the only two possibilities, right?” I can feel the puzzlement wrinkle between my eyebrows.

“I don't just mean that sometimes you happened to be looking at each other, and sometimes you happened not to be. I mean that when you weren't looking at each other you were very aware that you were not looking at each other. You were making an effort to look anywhere else.”

oh.

Oh.

OH.

I feel it like a body blow. I hunch forward and wrap my arms around myself like I've been punched. I've been interacting with Baz about Mordi, and we've helped her a lot. But every single time it's also been about him. About feelings I have about him. About feelings I have FOR him. I feel my cheeks burn red.

“Oh hon, I see that you really didn't know. Just breathe, sweetie.”

I sit up slowly. “What am I going to  _ do _ , Ebb? He's her  _ teacher _ !”

“Well, no one says you ever have to do anything about it. And he won't be her teacher forever, you know.” She comes over and sits in the empty chair next to me. I lean into her and she takes me in her arms. “How long has this been going on?”

“I think...maybe for a very long time.”


	6. May

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The big finish!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mordelia and Baz are not related; Malcolm did not remarry and Baz is an only child.
> 
> This is set in the USA.

**Simon**

Tomorrow's the last day of school, and Mordi wants to have Zoe come over to dinner, so I'm out shopping. I'll cook some pasta for us, but I'd like a festive dessert and don't really have time to make something, so I'm in the bakery department. They have some cute little cakes that aren't impossibly large for three people; I'm trying to decide between chocolate-orange, chocolate-strawberry, and double chocolate.

“Those look good.” I look up; Baz is standing near me with a shopping cart. My chest feels warm and fluttery and my belly is doing backflips again. This time I definitely know what they mean. Sadly, they seem to be killing my power of speech. “Oh, hi! Um, yeah, hi.” Great, just great.

“Is it a special occasion?”

“Well, uh, Mordelia wants to celebrate the end of school. And it kind of feels special to me – we've made it through a year together.” I grab one at random and put it in my cart.

“So this was your first year parenting? How has that been?” He's looking at me kind of intensely, or maybe it just feels that way because my brain is on full, conscious OMG I Like Him alert.

“I love it. I've had to learn a lot about patience, but I love it. And I think Mordelia's really starting to trust that I'll be here for her going forward.” Someone is clearing their throat behind Baz; they want to get past. We're really kind of blocking traffic.

“I should probably finish shopping,” he says. “But what would you think of having lunch together some time after school is out?” Is it my imagination, or does Baz sound nervous? Is there any chance that Ebb was right, and he likes me too?

“Uh, yeah, that would be great. Yeah.”

“Okay, I'll text you. Good seeing you.” And he moves his cart along.

**Baz**

I can't believe I said that. I definitely want to see him again, but I'm also terrified at the very idea. Thank heavens I said I would text him, not call him. I'm not sure I could possibly bring myself to press “dial” on a phone call, at least not without a stiff drink, and that doesn't seem like the best approach, especially given my past tendency to insult him when I'm under stress. The last thing I need to do is lower my inhibitions.

Unfortunately, it's also the first thing I need to do. I actually did somehow throw my inhibitions to the wind in the store – otherwise I would never have asked him out. Now I need to hang onto that boldness and follow through with a text; if I drop the matter now there's no way I'll ever have the nerve again. But I can't help thinking he seemed uncomfortable when we were talking. Was he just being polite when he stammered out an affirmative? Maybe he'd rather I just drop it.

I finish shopping, go home, put the groceries away, and find several other excuses for delay. It's as I go to pick up a sponge to clean the switch plate for the kitchen lights that I decide I have officially become ridiculous, sigh, and pull out my phone instead.

**Simon**

I get home and make tonight's dinner – broiled salmon, steamed broccoli, quick and easy. I'm not a fancy cook, but like me, Mordi is happy just to have plentiful food that's not awful. During “three things”, I tell her about running into Baz. “And he asked if I wanted to have lunch some time. It kind of surprised me.”

She wrinkles her brow and  _ looks _ at me. “So, is that, like, a date?”

I poke my broccoli. “I don't know.” I turn a floret over, as if there might be a clue to Baz's intentions hiding underneath it. “What if it is? Would that be okay with you?” I haven't dated anyone in the year that Mordi has been living with me. I haven't minded at all; my life is full and busy, and Mordi is my number one priority. But I don't want to be single forever, and I want her to be with me permanently, so even if this isn't a date, I'll want to date someone someday. But Baz has been her teacher, so that could be a little weird.

She reaches for the bread. “I guess. I mean, he's kind of fun, and definitely cute. You could do worse.”

I have no idea what to say to that, so I take a drink of water.

Later, while I'm loading the dishwasher and straightening the kitchen, my phone buzzes with a text. It's Baz.

**Baz Pitch 8:41pm** Hello, Snow. I'm glad I ran into you today.

**Simon 8:43pm** hi Baz, what's up

**Baz Pitch 8:44pm** As I said, I thought perhaps we could get lunch some time.

**Simon 8:45pm** sure, that sounds good

**Simon 8:36pm** what were you thinking?

**Baz**

What  _ was _ I thinking? Fancy? Casual? Romantic? I  _ wasn't _ thinking, except that I didn't want to never see him again, and without teaching his kid, I didn't know how else to ensure that. Casual seems safest.

**TBP 8:41pm** Do you know Mike's Cafe?

It's a neighborhood kind of place, with consistently good food, California cuisine without being precious or too up-market.

**Snow 8:42pm** yeah, it's pretty good

**Snow 8:43pm** any particular day?

**TBP 8:44pm** My schedule is wide open once school lets out, so it's a matter of what's good for you.

**Snow 8:46pm** it's a LARP weekend, so I'd be free this Saturday

Good God, that's the day after tomorrow. Well, in for a penny...

**TBP 8:48pm** This Saturday would be lovely. See you at Mike's at noon?

**Snow 8:49pm** sure, sounds good

**Snow 8:50pm** ttyl?

**TBP 8:51pm** Until Saturday, then.

I did it. I'm having lunch with Simon Snow. By arrangement. It's not a chance encounter or a school function; it's a deliberate social engagement for no other purpose. I'm on the one hand terrified that it's so soon and on the other glad that I'll only have to bear the suspense for a day and a half.

Friday, the last day of school, is a short day. I let the kids talk and sign yearbooks – there hasn't been much substantive work done all week. Mordelia's class happens to be last today. As the bell rings, I wish them all a good summer (they can't hear me over the tumultuous rush to the door) and start packing up a few items from my desk. Someone comes up to me and I look up.

It's Mordelia Grimm. “So I hear you're having lunch with my dad tomorrow.”

They do  _ not _ prepare you for this scenario in teacher training. “Um, yes, that's right.”

“He's a nice guy. I wouldn't want his feelings to get hurt. Do you understand?” And she gives me this  _ look _ .

“Absolutely. I couldn't agree more.” I continue packing.

“Good. Have a great summer!” she says sunnily as she turns and leaves the room.

I think I just got a low-key shovel talk from a 13 year old.

**Simon**

I spend Friday in something of a daze. I got kind of used to interacting with Baz in a semi-normal, peaceful fashion this year. But this lunch (lunch date? I wish I knew) is going to be the first time since Ebb dropped that truth bomb on me, the first time since I've learned what those flutters are about. That I like him – that I'm  _ attracted  _ to him.

Zoe comes over and dinner passes in a middle-school riot of jabbering about LARP and art and summer plans. They don't need me to say anything, just to make the food happen. That's fine, since I'm too distracted for much else.

On Saturday morning I take more care with my appearance than usual. I put some goop in my hair to try to cut down on the frizz and I shave twice. I’m glad I started using an electric shaver a few years ago, because with my nerves in this state I would definitely cut myself if I tried to use a razor. I'm assessing the second pass – things feel really smooth and I don't think I've missed any hairs around the edges like I sometimes do – when Mordi bangs on the bathroom door. “Hey! I'm going to be late for LARP. Will you be done in there soon?”

“Okay, no problem.” I come out in my bathrobe and she pushes past. She's out the front door 10 minutes later, giving me hours in which to dress and second-guess my outfit choice. Really, nearly everything I have is the same. I end up in jeans and a button-up that is less worn and faded than most of my wardrobe.

Well.

Now I just need to maintain my sanity for three hours until it's time to meet Baz at the restaurant. I try pacing, reading, watching television, pacing while reading, pacing while watching television. I draw the line at pacing while reading with the TV on, though it seems worth considering.

**Baz**

I would normally sleep in on the first day of summer break, but there is no way that is happening on the day I'm having lunch with Snow. I wake up even earlier than I would on a school day with my belly in an uproar. I feel vaguely as if I might be sick. It's hours until lunch, so I treat myself to a bath instead of a shower. I bring a large acrylic cup full of crushed ice and seltzer – I love the combination of a hot bath and a cold drink.

After a long soak, I get out, then shampoo and condition my hair in the shower (I hate sitting in a tub full of shampoo rinse water, even briefly). I shave and go through my skincare routine and then consider the question of clothing. I have a well-curated wardrobe and generally consider myself to have impeccable taste, but today I seem to be having difficulty settling on an outfit. I eventually chose dark wash slim cut jeans and one of my favorite shirts – white with blue and purple flowers and fat bumblebees. It's a little bit extra, but so am I when I'm at my best.

I'm all ready to go and it's not even 9 am. I don't want breakfast in the least; fortunately my Crohn's pills can be taken without food, so I do that. I've got hours to kill yet, and I feel too antsy to just do something quiet at home, so I drive way up into the hills for a view of the bay. I take a good look and let the wide open space help me breathe.

**Simon**

Finally it's 11:30 and I feel like I can justify leaving for the restaurant (even though the drive will take under 10 minutes). I'm twenty minutes early, of course, because that's how time works, even when it's not convenient. I don't want to just be loitering here for that long, so I set out to walk around the block. Two or three times. It's actually a very nice day for a walk, if I manage to pay attention to the sun and the light breeze rather than my nerves.

I'm midway through my second lap when I see Baz walking towards me. At first I think I must be wrong, it must be someone else, but no, it's him. He’s wearing a beautiful shirt with flowers and bumblebees, and his hair is loose around his face. It looks soft and touchable. “Oh hi,” I say, as we walk up to each other. I don't know whether I should offer a hug or a handshake or a fist bump (hey, it's been working for me and Mordi!), so I don't do any of those.

“I was so early I figured I'd take a walk first,” I say.

“Me too,” he says, huffing a laugh at himself. “Should we wait for noon sharp or just go for it?” He lifts his eyebrows; I don't think “noon sharp” is serious.

“Let's go for it.” He turns so we're headed the same way and we go forward together.

**Baz**

Simon looks delectable. He’s wearing a slightly rumpled pale blue shirt that makes his eyes sing. His hair is golden in the sunlight. I wonder whether I’ll ever get to bury my fingers in those curls. I’m a little embarrassed at being caught here early – I feel like it shows my hand – but he’s early too. It’s just a few minutes’ walk to the restaurant, and it’s lovely weather. And that’s the sort of inane thing we talk about as we walk – the weather and the distance. Hopefully things will get better once we’re seated.

Mike's is pleasant and unfussy and we get a table right away – they're busy, but have a few spaces left. I'm glad for that, as it feels less awkward than having to wait. As always, I scan the menu for things I can eat without risk – I definitely don't want to end up in the ER today.

After we order, Simon is fiddling with his flatware. “So, I think I told you, I can be kind of clueless. So...is this a date?”

I take a deep breath. Here it is.

“I think that depends on us. I would really like it to be a date. What about you?”

“Me too.”

I smile gently. “Good.” I feel a humming warmth in my belly. He smiles too, and our eyes meet. His eyes are beautiful and blue and electric and I have to duck my gaze or be lost in them.

“Hey, could I...could I ...” He's moved on from silverware fidgeting to napkin fidgeting, and he's got it practically tied into knots.

I lift an eyebrow, but also quirk a smile so he'll know I'm just teasing. “Could you...”

“Could I hold your hand?” He bites his lip.

“Oh God yes.” I lay my hand palm up on the table between our plates and he takes my fingers. The area of contact is small, but it's got me more on fire than kisses with some other men have. Maybe any other man. From the way his breath catches, it seems like maybe he feels it too, at least a bit. Our eyes meet again, and he laughs a tiny laugh, almost a giggle. This time he's the one that looks away.

“That's so intense. Like, I'm gonna take my hand back for now, just so I can hope to get through lunch without combusting. Is that okay?”

“Yes, that's okay,” I say, somewhere between disappointment and relief. I bring my hand to my lap. I don't pick up my silverware yet because I want to keep the ghost of his fingers there for just one more moment.

**Simon**

Wow. Holding Baz's hand took those backflips up to Cirque de Soleil levels. I was embarrassed to pull back so fast, but it was really intense.

I get busy with my salad, not sure what to say next. We're both feeling something here, but we only sort of know each other. In one sense we've known each other for over a decade and in another sense we've been getting to know each other this whole year, but this is still our first date.

Baz saves the day with a somewhat neutral topic. “Do you have summer plans?”

“Well, I'm working most of the time, and Mordi's doing a lot of LARP camp. I did put in a vacation request for the last week of July – I thought maybe she and I would take a road trip together. What about you?”

“For now I just want to unwind, spend some evenings where I don't have to grade papers or write lesson plans or answer parent and student emails. I might get away to Hawaii later in the summer.” I feel a little bad, like Mordi and I have been making work for Baz, but there's no way to say so that wouldn't be awkward. Like, either he says yes, it was a hassle, and it's awkward for me or he says no, and it's still awkward, because I'll feel like he had to say that.

“I'd be interested to hear how you got into teaching, unless you're so sick of it that you just don't want to go there right now.” Apparently he doesn't mind going there, and we finish out the meal talking about how we picked our career paths, what we've been doing since college, how I ended up with Mordelia. I get involved enough that I forget to be uncomfortable, though there is this little happy buzz going on in my body the whole time.

**Baz**

I enjoy my meal, and I really, really enjoy the company. When did I turn into someone who could sit and talk with Simon Snow, like we were both... just people? I'm not calm, exactly, but I'm not on the attack, either. It's like I know we both want to be here, and I trust him enough to start to let him see who I am, and maybe even a little bit of what I feel.

When the check comes, we both reach for our wallets, but I stop him. “Could I pay? I invited you. You could pay next time.” I pull up short, realizing that I've just made a huge assumption, but he just smiles.

“Okay, it's a deal, since that means I get a next time.” I really, really like his smile, and the fact that he is smiling at the idea of a next time. After I sign the credit slip, we walk out to the parking lot together. We come to his car first and we stop. “Well, this is me,” he says, turning to face me. “Thank you for lunch.”

“Thank you for coming. I really enjoyed it.”

I want to kiss him. Should I kiss him? Maybe a hug would be safer. I can definitely hug him, right? He said this was a date, he asked to hold my hand, he wants a next time; surely I can hug him. I step towards him, opening my arms for a hug.

And then  _ he _ kisses  _ me _ .

–  **The Beginning –**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with the story and saying nice things about it! I have loved writing it.
> 
> Huge thanks to my wonderful beta readers, @daisy-bug and @tbazzsnow.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'll post a new chapter every other day.


End file.
